Me and Terry McG
by batE
Summary: Musings about a certain high school hero from those who know him well [slight T/M]
1. Mentor

A/N: Just a little story I wrote and had forgotten about before I found it again. I'm hoping it'll help me get over my writer's block with Wake-up Call. Any comments, questions, etc., are appreciated. There's mild T/M in here. Oh, and the title is a take-off of Janis' Joplin's "Me and Bobby McGee," in case anyone was wondering. Review if you feel so inclined!  
  
  
  
  
I'll never learn.  
  
Couldn't help but say it when the kid stole the Batsuit and went after the men who killed his father. Can't help saying it every time I see him get the stuffing kicked out of him or when he walks into a trap I could've seen coming a mile away.  
  
I'll. Never. Learn.  
  
I say it every time he gets back to the cave with a new set of bruises and four hundred more miles on the Batmobile. Each and every time . . . I curse myself for the old fool I am.  
  
Old ~sentimental~ fool, maybe.  
  
That's how the kid - how Terry - got to me in the first place. He grabbed the suit because he didn't ~think~ trusting in the law to give him justice would be a good idea. I knew better: I ~knew~ the law wouldn't give him satisfaction . . . so I let him go. Let him take down Powers and his hired guns. I let him have his "fun."  
  
And that was my first mistake.  
  
But my ~second~ mistake is the one that really sealed the deal.  
  
I let him get under my skin.   
  
I like to think I don't make many mistakes . . . but when I do . . . they aren't small ones . . . and they don't go away. Ever.  
  
And they aren't really mistakes, either. I knew what I was doing with each and every one of them. Another thing I've learned in my . . . advanced age.  
  
But on Terry. I try to tell myself that I didn't know he'd go so far as to actually swipe the costume. That I wasn't so old and decrepit as to allow something so important to be stolen from ~my~ domain. But I knew. I saw it coming. Saw it that first night . . .the night he came barreling onto my property with a gang of Jokerz on his tail. He got cornered, the punks were coming in, and nobody noticed me standing among the trees just back from my evening walk. I watched them all only for about half a minute, but in those 30 seconds, I could see the difference between McGinnis and the punks who were ready to beat the hell out of him. The gang walked up on him with their chests puffed out, their panted smiles even goofier in the moonlight, confident that they had their prey dead to rights. But I saw their eyes move and shift around. They were looking for the quickest possible escape route . . . just in case ~something~ went wrong. I think Terry saw them looking around, too . . . because his eyes never strayed from them. Not once.  
  
He was outnumbered and defenseless - trapped. He knew it, too, but he didn't look for a place to run or hide. He stood his ground, kept his eyes on them. Reckless, yes. Incredibly reckless. But the gaze was more than that.   
  
Fearless. It was fearless . . . I could see that from where I stood in the shadows, and, I think, the Jokerz could see it, too. It confused them a little, and scared them a lot. They hesitated. And in that split second, I came out of hiding, and Terry and I . . .got acquainted.  
  
But still . . . I believed then as I do now that even if I hadn't jumped in, he would've kicked their tails from here to Bludhaven.  
  
I should've put the Batsuit - all of them - in storage . . . under lock, key, and anything else I could use -- that night . . . the night I saw that look in his eyes. I didn't, though, and here we have it: a new Batman in Gotham and the old one as mentor. I guess it could be worse - kid goes all right. Most of the time. I try my best to steer him away from the pitfalls of the job, but I never try to hide the dangers. "This is what I want," he's often said. Fine. Part of a mentor's job is to be supportive of the acolyte's choice, right? Well, his choice entails getting his head routinely stomped by lunatics. Hey . . . enjoy, kid.  
  
Barbara's not too happy about it all . . . but I guess I shouldn't have expected less. He ~is~ young. Yes, Tim was younger than Terry was when he started, but Tim had me and Dick - sometimes, anyway - and Barbara out there with him. McGinnis is alone, for the most part. Sure, he can always turn to me and the Batcomputer for help, and though I don't like it much, his friend Maxine has proven pretty resourceful. So . . . he's never truly ~alone~ . . . not really. But I don't kid myself about being able to mount an effective rescue if it really hits the fan. Been there, tried that when he got into it with Inque. Took me a week to recover from that one. Terry's got to go it alone. He knows it and I know it. And we both accept it.  
  
So I've just got to hope that I'm right about him . . . it. That he does have that indefinable "it" that'll keep him alive and carry him through the nights . . . the battles . . . because god knows there'll be many, many more to come.   
  
But I know I am right. It's instinct. Besides, I like to think that if I weren't, if McGinnis wasn't something special, he would've been . . .gone a long time ago. But more likely, he wouldn't have ever found out my secret, he wouldn't have been able to find the entrance to the cave, and he certainty would never have been able to grab he suit from under my nose.  
  
Yeah, the kid's got it, all right . . .you can see it in his eyes. I could - and I didn't even have to look very close . . . or very long.  
  
Yes. It only took a second - for both of us - to ~know.~ Call it a sixth sense, call it Bat sense, call it whatever you want. We ~knew.~  
  
Ahhhhh, but what do I know, really? I'm just an old fool, after all. An old fool who'll never learn. 


	2. Lover

He always knows how to get to me.  
  
Even as far back as elementary school, he knew just which buttons to push. Back then, he was "that boy." That boy who kicked sand on me at recess. That boy who pulled my hair during geography class. That boy who teased me day after day after day. "Dana the pain-a!" he'd yell on the hoverbus. I'd answer in kind: "I hate you, Terry McGinnis!" And then I'd run off the bus, cheeks burning . . . but dry-eyed. No tears . . . there were never any tears. His attentions back then were more embarrassing than they were hurtful. I think that even then I knew that he was teasing me because he cared - not because he didn't.  
  
And years later, he's still "that boy." That boy who wraps his jacket around me when it gets cold. That boy who holds my hand when he walks me home. That boy who steals kisses from me at the most inappropriate moments, 'cause he knows those kisses are sweeter than any kind.  
  
That boy. Yeah, he's still "that boy." That boy I love.   
  
Terry.  
  
Loving him comes easy to me now, and that surprises me a little. I mean, in junior high, I never thought I'd pay him more than a passing glance - even though he was turning into a real hunk. And yeah, by ninth grade (actually, by sixth), he'd stopped with the hair pulling and name-calling. He was sweet . . . even a little shy around me. And that was nice, but . . .   
  
Well, the truth is, he scared me. He was hanging with a really rough crowd then . . . a real bunch of losers, like that idiot Charlie Bigalow, and getting into trouble. Stealing, starting fights . . . I can't even really remember all the stuff Terry had gotten into. Honestly, I don't ~want~ to remember. But everyone knew what he was doing, including my parents. That's when he became "that boy" to them, too: "That McGinnis boy." "That boy who spray-painted gang symbols on the train station." "That boy who steals." "That boy who's done time in Juvenile Hall." To this day, my Dad doesn't really trust him . . . he looks at him and sees the old Terry. Seems no matter how much I try, I can't get my father to see the here-and-now Terry. Well . . . I'm not giving up hope. Maybe one day . . .  
As for Terry, though, he doesn't like to talk about his past much, except to say that it's behind him and that he's changed. He was going through a lot - I know that now. His parents were divorcing, and life as he knew it was pretty much being turned upside down. I know it was hard for him . . . but I don't know if I'll completely understand what it was like for him back then.  
  
Just as I don't understand - and I hope I never do - what he's been going through lately. His father was murdered, and his killers, members of that stupid Jokerz gang, are still out there somewhere. I know it's hard for him to deal with, but he's dealing with it somehow. I mean, I think that if everything that had happened to Terry had happened to me, I would be in Arkham or something. But not Terry: He's strong . . . so strong. I always feel absolutely safe when I'm with him.  
  
Not that I've gotten a chance to spend much time lately. Ever since he took that part-time job with Bruce Wayne, things have been a little shaky with us. He's always working, it seems. Sometimes he'll break dates or even run out on them because Mr. Wayne summons. I ~hate~ hearing that cell phone ring, because I know that it means Bruce Wayne "needs him." Sometimes I wonder if he understands that ~I~ need him, too. And I do. I need his strong arms around me. I need those sky-blue eyes staring into mine. I need those lips . . . those lips especially. I need him. More and more each day, I need him.  
  
I'm trying to be patient - Mr. Wayne's a billionaire, and with his father gone, Terry has to work and help his Mom out with the finances. Terry has explained that to me, and I understand, really I do. But it's hard. I feel like he's slipping away from me . . . that his not having time for "us" has become routine and comfortable for him . . . that our relationship is ceasing to be a priority to him.  
  
I try to tell myself that I'm being silly, but sometimes I wonder if we're together because we ~want~ to be or because we're ~used~ to it.   
  
But I know myself . . . I know that I'll never let him go. I always want him to be "that boy." ~My~ boy. My Terry.  
  
And I guess that's why I always give him another chance every time he messes up. I can't help it -- he's got my heart. He's had it from the time we were kids, and he always will have it. I mean, I can be mad as hell at him, and all he has to do is look at me with those beautiful blue eyes and smile at me. And then I'm all his again. And he knows it.  
  
He's always been able to get to me like that, damn him. 


	3. Confidante

Sidekicks get no respect. ~None.~  
  
Their costumes suck, the duties suck, and then there's the whole nickname thing. The main guy always gets the cool nickname. I mean, you have Green Hornet . . . a cool, concise nickname. But what's the sidekick called?Kato. Now how lame is that? You've got the Lone Ranger - again, a very cool nom de guerre - but who's the sidekick? Tonto. Tonto! Which means "foolish" in Spanish, for god's sake!  
  
And then the big one. Batman. You have Batman (well, the first one, anyway.) Batman. Cool, dark, mysterious, eerie. Fine. But who was the sidekick? Uh-huh . . . you guessed it . . .the big, bad . . . Robin.  
  
Robin. Right. Nothing says "bad-ass superhero" like a little red bird, huh?  
  
Pathetic.   
  
I mean, come on: sidekicks don't get much of the glory . . . they might as well get a moniker that ~says~ something, right? Seems only fair, doesn't it?  
  
But then, why am ~I~ bitching? I'm not a sidekick, really . . . I just play one on the ongoing drama known as "My Life." So since I'm not "officially" in on the hero deal, and wouldn't get a cool name even if I ~were,~ I guess plain, ordinary Max will have to suffice.  
  
Actually, I'm sorta glad I'm not the Number Two superheroine in the city. There are a couple of reasons why I feel this way: First off, Terry - oh, sorry, ~Batman,~ gets into far too many ass-whoopin' situations for my taste. Secondly . . . um, well, actually, the first reason is more than enough to deter me from wanting a full-time spot in the superhero game. But I can't seem to stop myself from pitching in when I can.  
  
I mean, come on: If ~your~ best friend was a flying, Batarang-throwing legend, and let you in on his secret identity, wouldn't you want a piece of the action?  
  
Okay, fine. So I'm weird. I have pink hair . . . what do you expect?  
  
But I'm not stupid . . . and I'm not just saying that because of my grades, my test score or my ability to hack into the CIA mainframe in less than 20 seconds (one of my fondest achievements.) What I mean is, I know that being the guardian, er, Bat, for an entire city isn't all fun, games and cool toys. Though, Terry gets a good amount of all that stuff, too.  
  
I tease him about not wanting a partner because he's have to share the limelight - and the Batmobile - with someone else, but I'm not so naïve or shallow. What he does out there isn't a game. This isn't 365-days-a-year Halloween. What he does isn't glamorous, really, and it's not gonna get him a medal . . . not any time soon. He's often told me that being Batman is about having ~fun, ~ and I know it's not.  
  
What he does is about justice. It's about righting wrongs and all that stuff that the police and the lawyers and the doctors ~should~ be doing for us, but can't. Or don't.   
  
Being Batman is about life and death.   
  
I'm reminded of that every time I see him hobble into school with black-and-blue marks down his arms and his ribs taped, or his ankle in a cast. Or a combination of the three. Or all of the above. Or different aches and pains altogether. He'll explain the injuries away to everybody - Dana, Chelsea and the other rubberneckers at school. He'll feed them some line about falling off his bike or slipping and banging his knee, and they'll buy his story completely.  
  
But during all his attempts to deflect the attention away from his sore spots, he'll catch my eye and give me this little nod and this look like, "Yeah, I got my ass handed to me . . . but I got 'em."   
  
For Ter, ~that's~ the important part - that he gets the bad guys. If he's able to walk and form coherent sentences afterward, that's a bonus. But first order of business is always to get the bad guy. And damn, if he doesn't always get them. He's just good like that, I guess. A natural.  
  
Sometimes, I ask him ~why~ he does it . . .why he puts himself out there like that, especially seeing as he's the "man of the house" now. Most of the time, his answer is just a shrug, almost as if he himself can't believe he's doing it. Sometimes, he'll say: "It's just something I've got to do, Max. I've just . . . got to." And that'll be it. Maybe it's better that I don't know his motivations. A guy's gotta have some secrets, after all, although by now, he's gotta know that he can tell me anything. Anything. I'm his confidante, after all. That's what we do: We listen. We support. We offer help and advice when we can . . . but mostly we're just ~there.~ Ready to be used when needed. Sorta like fire extinguishers, I guess, to make a very pitiful analogy.  
  
You know, there are nights when I'm out and about, and I'll see the Batmobile streak across the sky on the way to a call. People always stop and look up and stare when they see it. They'll point and ooh and ahh, and try to guess which lunatic's about to get his ass kicked by the Bat.  
  
I look up, too, along with everyone else, but I'm never in that pointing, drooling crowd. Nope. I look up and I keep my mouth shut . . .but inside . . . inside, I'm talking. Inside, I'm doing my "Mantra for the Bat." I'm pleading with whichever higher power is responsible for the care and safekeeping of superheroes to please, please, let him not crash the car going or coming, please let him get the bad guy, please let him not rip his wings during the getaway, and please, please, please, ~please~ let him come out of this one alive. He can be stomped or a little broken or whatever, but please . . . please, he's got to be alive.   
  
I beg whoever's listening up there to keep him safe. Just keep him safe, please. So many people need him - his mom, his brother, Dana, me. God . . . do I need him. I need him to fly through my window when it's all over and perch on my bed, all out of breath and pumped from the fight, ready to give me the blow-by-blow. I need that, O guardian saint of heroes. I need Terry alive, so ~please~ let him be okay. No matter what, he'll never turn his back on this city . . . so please, don't turn your back on him.  
  
By the time I'm finished my little internal chant, the Batmobile's long gone, all of the onlookers have dispersed, and I'm still staring at the sky like a weirdo. It usually takes awhile for me to peel my eyes away from the sky and walk on.   
  
I'm happy to report, though, that so far, my mantra has proved successful. ~Somebody~ out there is watching over him . . . and I thank whomever it is I need to thank for that. I just keep hoping its not luck . . . because luck's fickle. Luck's uncertain. And luck scares me . . . even though it was luck (and a little skill, I'll admit) that got me in on the secret in the first place. His secret. Before I knew, it was just ~him, ~ and the old man, course, but mainly just him alone with his secret. Now, I'm in on the deal, too. And it's nice. It's nice to be the one Terry turns to. The one he visits after patrols. The one he calls in on the tough cases. The one he drops in on (usually with double chocolate-chip ice cream) in the middle of the night when he just wants to talk.  
  
It's those times when we're alone and I'm listening to him talk about his nightlife that I realize that the fairy tales got it all wrong: White knights are totally lame. It's the dark ones who can be trusted to save the day or win the battle or keep the promise or rescue the maiden.   
  
I should know. I've been the "maiden" to his Dark Knight plenty of times. I've been clasped in those subtly muscled arms. Those black and blood-red wings have protected me. I've flown through the air with him as he carried me to safety. It's the closest thing I've ever felt to being a "princess." Only being saved by a dark Knight was a billion times better than anything any fairy tale writer could come up with. ~Trust~ me.  
  
Only, I'd never tell Terry that. Guy might think I'm in love with him or something. And I'm not. I'm so ~not.~  
  
Me in love with Terry? That'd be so soap opera, right? Best-friend-falls-for-super-hero-guy-who's-also-dating-gorgeous-poplular-girl. Totally cliche, right? Right?   
  
Right. 


	4. Enemy

Guess you never really know who your friends are.  
  
It's easy in Juvie, because the first thing you learn there is that you ~have~ no friends. You might have guys who'll stick up for you -for a price, usually - or guy's who'll talk to you and sit with you at meals, but actual friends? Nah.  
  
Friendship is a choice, after all. And in Juvie, you don't get choices.   
  
For me, there hardly any choices for ~anything~ any more, and I have Terry McGinnis to thank for that.   
  
He was a friend . . .once. We lived on the same street when his folks were together. He'd come over to my house and play vidgames and study and stuff. Sometimes, I'd go over to his house and watch vids with him and his kid brother. It was cool going over there: Terry's folks were always real nice to me - his Dad especially. Mr. McGinnis was a scientist at Wayne-Powers and we used to talk a lot about his job there. Terry never seemed to interested in what his Dad did for a living, but I was. I loved science and math, and I knew I wanted a job just like Mr. McGinnis' - not one like my Dad had. My Dad worked construction, and it fit him. See, he's real good a breaking stuff, my dad is.  
  
Yeah . . . concrete, bricks, woods, spirits - especially spirits - my dad can break ~anything.~ Anything. Just ask my mom. If you can find her that is. Or ask me . . . I know. Yeah. I know.  
  
But anyway, me and Terry were real close when we were younger - but then his parents split up and his dad moved away. I saw less of Terry then, because he started hanging out with the gangs and running the streets. My Dad kept me on a short leash and didn't let me hang out with Terry when he was gettin' into trouble. Then he got sent to Juvie for a while - I forget how long. It was for a shorter time than what I've got to serve now, I know that much.   
  
Anyway, after he got out of Juvie, Terry went across town to live with his Dad. I saw even less of him then, even though we were in some of the same classes at school, and he'd stopped hanging out with those older twips who were still goin' around breaking into people's houses. Yeah . . . McGinnis had changed. He grew up, got kinda buff and joined the wrestling team. Then he was "in" at Hill - he got to be known around school and even started dating Dana Tan.  
  
I stayed the same, mostly - scrawny, thick glasses, totally unathletic. And a girlfriend? Yeah, right. No woman would even look at me, and I was crazy about a girl who didn't even know my name. Blade Summer. How come the hottest chicks also have to be the stupidest? Ah, well. Got a looong time to think about that question, I guess.  
  
Before things totally fell apart for me, Terry and I had started talking more. He was able to keep Nelson Nash, Blade's boyfriend, from pounding me into the dust. That was nice of him, sure, and it was neat to chew the fat with McGinnis again after so many years. It wasn't like the old times, but it was still nice. And it wasn't one of those pity friendships, either. You know, It wasn't one of those "Oh, I'll talk to Willie because the poor twip doesn't have anybody." I always got that "Poor Watt" vibe from most people at Hill High, including Terry's girl, Dana. But I never got it from ~him.~ I could always tell that he was talking to me because he actually ~wanted~ to - not because he felt sorry for me or anything. I appreciated that. I did. It was a nice thing to know that I had a friend. God knows I sure needed one: that was the year my Dad ~really~ started getting on my case.  
  
That was also the year I got my powers . . . a remnant of my time with the GOLEM. Telekinetic powers . . . sweet! Can you imagine? I could pick stuff up just by thinking about it! It was an incredible thing . . . and incredible feeling. But it's gone forever now. Or at least it will be.  
  
See, I have Terry to thank for ~that,~ too. I was using my powers to have a little fun at Hill High, and, okay, maybe I did want to kill Nelson, but seriously . . . what is the death of one jock in the scheme of things? I mean, no one missed that twip Garrison Jacobs much, did they?   
  
Ha. That was funny. Those idiots at Hill thought Garrison's death was an accident. Geez, I laughed so hard when I heard that one.   
  
Yeah. An accident. Just like it was an accident when Garrison toilet-papered my locker, tripped me down the stairs, and helped Nelson and his other goons throw me into the river at the dance at the pier that time. Those were all . . . accidents, too.  
  
People can be so stupid sometimes.   
  
But anyways, I was living high off the hog in Juvie. Nobody messed with me; I got rec room time to myself, got access to the Web and to vids, and was gonna get out for good behavior. I'd bulked up, lost the glasses and was ready to show the world what Willie Watt was ~truly~ made of.  
  
And then McGinnis came along . . . being a ~friend.~ He came to see me in Juvie - hell, he was the only one to visit me. Not even my fucking father came down. But that was probably just as well . . . I might've tried to kill the twip using my powers.  
  
But Terry came to see me. He talked to me, and it was like old times, sorta. Somehow, though, he knew about my powers and the guards caught me using 'em in front of him. Then I busted out, but that damned Batman got involved and hauled me back.  
  
And here I'll stay 'til my 18th birthday . . . then it's off to the "real" jail to do some real time, except now I've got no powers. They've got some contraption on my head and hands that keeps me from using them, and when I get transferred to adult prison, they're talking about putting a chip in my brain that'll prevent me from using my powers ever again.  
  
Fun, huh? Nice life, right?  
  
Sure is. And I owe it all to Terry McGinnis.  
  
And it's a shame, too. Terry was a friend . . .once.  
  
But not anymore. 


	5. Blood

He's a twip sometimes, but he can be pretty cool.  
  
I mean, for an older brother and dreg and all - he's not bad. He can be really schway when he wants to - like he'll take me to Cheezy Dan's when Mom's working, or he'll let me stay up late and watch the Monster Mash on the Web - Mom would frag him if she knew that. It's times like that I think it's pretty neat to have a big brother.   
  
But it wasn't always like that. Back when I was young - real young - Terry never did anything with me. He'd go out with his friends and stay out real, real late doing bad stuff. I don't know what kinda bad stuff it was he was doing, but I'd hear Mom and Dad talking about it -- they'd yell at him. And then sometimes, they'd yell at each other. I didn't like it when they yelled . . . it scared me. It made me feel, I dunno, alone . . . and sad. Like ~I'd~ done something wrong. I wanted to talk to Terry . . . and I tried to tell him how I felt about Mom and Dad always being mad at him and each other, but he never listened . . . he'd just shove me out of the way and go to his room and lock the door.   
  
Then he did something really, really bad -- I still don't know what -- and the police guys took him away. He was gone a long, long time, and I was so scared he wouldn't come back . . . that I wouldn't see him again and I wouldn't have a big brother anymore. I mean, yeah, he was a twip, but who else would take me to the park when Mom and Dad had to work? Who else would teach me how to do the way-schway wrestling moves that the guys on the Web did?   
  
Yeah, he was twip, sure. But he was ~my~ brother . . . and I needed him. I needed him to be with us.  
  
He did come back, though, and I should've been happy, but I wasn't. 'Cause then Dad left. He and Mom brought Terry in my room one night after dinner and told us that they weren't going to live together anymore. They said a whole lot of other stuff, too, but I wasn't listening that much. I don't think Terry was, either, 'cause when I looked at him, he wasn't looking at Mom or Dad - he was looking at ~me~ . . . and he was ~crying.~   
  
That was so weird to see . . . Terry hardly ~ever~ cried . . . not even when Mom and Dad yelled at him. He didn't cry when the police guys took him away. But he was crying when Dad said he was moving out . . . and it scared me worse than when he got taken away, because Terry never cried. "Crying's for twips," he told me once after he shoved me and tears ran down my face. Well I guess he was a twip right then, because he was crying all over the place. I think Mom and Dad were, too. I couldn't tell, because Terry had reached out and hugged me, and I couldn't see much of anything.  
  
A little while after Dad left, Terry started doing bad stuff again . . . and Mom would always get real mad and yell. It was hard . . . it was like listening to her and Dad all over again. And after awhile, Terry left, too -- he went to go live with Dad. Man, I really missed him . . . watching vids and stuff wasn't nearly as much as fun with Mom (sorry, Mom) as it was with Terry. Plus, I was afraid . . . you know, afraid that if Mom ever got mad at me, I'd have to leave, too. So I tried to be good . . . tried to help out . . . and tried to do everything she asked me, like keeping my room clean and doing my homework and stuff. Mom appreciated that, and she never yelled (well, there was that one time at the park when I tried to backflip of the monkey bars). And I thought that maybe if Terry and Dad would just be real, real nice to Mom, and just do stuff for her - like wash the dishes or water the plants, and all that stuff - then everything would be okay and we could all live together and be a family again. I mean, it was schway to go and visit Terry and Dad and stuff, but I wanted them back at home - our real home - with me and Mom.  
  
I was gonna talk to Terry to see if he and Dad even wanted to come back - I think they did, though. Dad and Terry would come to dinner sometimes, and they all looked so sad when they'd leave. But I was gonna ask Terry about my plan to get him and Dad to come back, but then . . . then . . .  
  
Dad.  
  
But then Dad . . . died.  
  
. . .  
  
After that . . . Terry came back to me and Mom. It was weird . . . I mean, it's what I wanted, kinda, but it felt strange having him back. I guess I was just afraid that Terry would start doing bad stuff again and get taken away again. That didn't happen, though. He got this job with Bruce Wayne . . . this real old, rich guy. . . and Mom says that Mr. Wayne has been "a real good influence" on him. I guess he has, but I don't know. He's working all the time, so I barely see him. When I do, it's really schway, though. We'll go and do all sorts of cool stuff, like sometimes, when we're both really missing Dad (which happens a lot) we'll take out old pictures of all of us together and talk about all the neat things we used to do with him. And this one time, we went to Cheezy Dan's, and I got kidnapped by this freaky guy with tattoos all over him. He kept me in this cage, and Batman had to save me! That was so schway, meeting Batman like that -- he totally rules, and he kicked that tattoo guy's butt. And Terry missed all of it! He missed the cage, he missed the freaky guy, and he missed Batman. I keep rubbing his face in it . . . I mean, ~I~ met Batman, and ~he~ didn't. Ha!  
  
But it was schway . . . I mean, if Terry hadn't taken me there in the first place, none of it would have ever happened, so I guess I owe him. He can be cool like that sometimes.   
  
Yeah, he can be really cool . . . sometimes. He's a twip, but as far as big brothers go, he's pretty awesome. 


	6. The Bat himself

This is no kind of life for anyone.  
  
I heard the old man say it to the mutt when he thought I wasn't listening.  
  
This is no kind of life . . . .  
  
I put myself out on the line every night. Sometimes all night. And there's no thanks, no rest, no recognition, really.  
  
. . . for anyone.  
  
And I don't complain. This is what I wanted. What I needed. It's what I've got to do. Hey . . . there are worse things than being the Batman, aren't there?  
  
It really isn't so bad. I've got the suit, which I'm getting used to, I've got the car, I've got the computers and the gadgets. And the most important thing - I've got Wayne guiding me through the rough spots. Over the past couple of years since I started doing this, the rough spots have gotten a little smoother. A little.  
  
But still . . . it's been a little hard. Getting pounded on never gets easier. Sneaking out of my bedroom window never gets easier. Breaking dates never gets easier. The keeping secrets never gets easier. But hey . . . I'm dealing with it. Got no other choice but to deal with it. It's either that, or . . . or . . . quit.  
  
And that's not an option. Sorry. I'm the Bat now . . . and that's how it's gonna be. That's how I want it to be . . . even if . . . even if being Batman does me in.  
  
Yeah, the ultimate sacrifice. I know it's possible. I hope like hell it never comes to that . . . I mean, Bruce made it through . . . guy's pushing 90, and still standing upright. Well, kind of. I'd love to be able to live through this hero thing . . . and I figure that as long as Bruce is with me, I've got a good shot of making past, well, at least high school graduation.  
  
But if I get killed doing this, well, hey . . . hazards of the job. I understand that. I accept it, and still I get my butt out there. I can't be afraid . . . people need me. I can't hesitate. Hesitation can mean death. Seriously. I've got to get out there and be out there and get to the trouble spots before it gets out of hand. I've got to be the Batman. I've got to do this . . . I ~have~ to. See, this gig is sort of like a salve for my soul.  
  
Every time I save someone, every time I stop a deal from going down, every time I deliver a crook to Commissioner Gordon and the cops, that ache I have deep down in me - past my heart, and my guts and past the deep places I didn't even know I had -- hurts a little less. Every time I do something good, I feel a little bit less of a loser for all the dirt I used to do with the gangs, for all the pain I caused to my Mom and my brother. For all the stupidity I pulled at school - when I ~did~ go to school.  
  
But the pain won't ever go completely away, no matter how many people I rescue or how many illegal Venom dealers I bring down. The hurt won't totally disappear - ever - because of the one person I ~didn't~ save. The one person who might still be here today if I hadn't been such an asshole.  
  
Warren David McGinnis. Loving son, loving father.  
  
My father.  
  
I think about that last night . . . the night he was killed. Man . . . how could I have ~said~ the stuff I'd said to him before I'd left that night? He'd tried so hard with me. After Juvie, and after I went nuts during the divorce, he ~still~ tried. He was the one who suggested to Mom that I come to live with him - guess he figured that he'd be better able to handle the whole adolescence thing.   
  
While I was with him, he'd tried his best with me. He was working like a dog at Wayne-Powers, but he still took the time to go to my wrestling matches, to meet with my counselors, to talk to me about stuff - girls, school, life - anything I wanted to talk about, he was there for me.  
  
And now that's gone. That's gone forever . . . and it's all my fault. Mine.  
  
So I got the suit. I met Wayne, got the suit, brought down one of my Dad's killers, and became the anointed Dark Knight.  
  
And I guess I'm doing okay. I've nabbed a few big-name bad guys: Inque, Derek Powers (the instigator of my Dad's death), Spellbinder, Shriek. I'm on pretty good footing with the "official" crimestoppers in Gotham, mainly because of Commissioner Gordon, and there's even news stories and articles written about the "New Bat ridding Gotham of its old corruption." All that stuff is pretty schway, and I wonder what my Dad would think about it all. I mean, I wonder if he's up there somewhere, you know, in Heaven or whatever, watching me do this. I wonder if he'd recognize me: I've changed so much since that night . . . since I've become the Batman.   
  
Some of the changes have been good. I'm stronger, for one thing, and more focused. I'm more responsible, and my instincts are sharper . . . I'm able to smell out a bad situation a mile away - okay, well, at least a couple blocks away.   
  
But some of the changes that come with the costume have been not so good. I'm more secretive, more closed off. I don't open up much anymore to anyone . . . well, except Bruce, I guess. And Max.   
  
Max. That's another change right there.  
  
It's so weird . . . I was so freaked out when she discovered my "secret." She was very schway about it all, and it was nice to have someone to talk to, but still . . . it was dangerous to let an outsider, for lack of a better word, in on this. Bruce had told me as much, and I agreed. It was dangerous, but it couldn't be helped.   
  
And now I'm in love with her. And that can't be helped, either.  
  
This is a huge problem. Huge. She's my best friend. She's my sounding board . . . my backup. My support system. Love her? I can't be in love with her. But I am.  
  
I have a beautiful girlfriend. I have Dana . . . whom I love - a lot. And she loves me, too. Well, most of the time. And we're happy . . . well, sort of. Even though we barely see each other anymore, even though we're constantly fighting, and she's constantly threatening to dump me, she's my girlfriend. We've known each other since we were kids. We're good together.  
  
But I love Max. And this is a big, big problem.  
  
I look at her and I just want to hold her, you know? I want to touch her . . . I want to kiss her, want to . . . uh, well, I think you get the idea. She's so damn gorgeous and sexy - that body . . . that hair (no one else in the world can carry off that shade of pink), those eyes . . . that smile. . . those lips. Man, those lips . . . I could write poems about those lips and what'd I like to do with them . . .what I'd like them to do to me. But, um, I won't. I kind of suck at poetry.  
  
And, you know, it's not just about the way she looks. There's just . . . this ~something~ about her that draws me. It's a mix of her intelligence, her bravery, her resourcefulness, and the fact that she believes in me. Me . . . a guy who runs around town dressed as a Bat trying to be Gotham's protector. She believes in me and does whatever she can to help me out.  
  
But she wants to be my ~partner.~ My Batgirl. I just want her to be my ~girl.~ And it sucks, you know, because neither of us will get what we want. She won't because Bruce'll never go for it, and I'm not to crazy about the idea, either. I won't because I can't hurt Dana that way . . . and neither would Max. She and Dane are almost like sisters . . . so there's no way Max would go for me.  
  
Though sometimes I catch her looking at me in this ~way.~ I can't really describe it, but I know I really like it . . . a lot. When she's looking at me like that, I have to wonder if she's feeling something like what I'm feeling. Or if she's feeling anything at all.  
  
But of course I never ask. Part of me really doesn't want to know one way or the other. I'm just twippy that way. So I guess for now, I'll keep my mouth shut and just dream about those lips. Those plush, gorgeous lips . . . .  
  
Aw, hell. Guess the old man's right. This life . . . my life . . . the Bat life . . . it's no type of life for anyone.   
  
But Bruce Wayne was one of the greatest heroes of all time, and this life was good enough for him. So who the hell am ~I~ to complain?  
  
FIN 


End file.
